


Coffees and Meteors and Whatnot

by curtailed



Series: Flotsam and Jetsam [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Coffee Shops, F/F, F/M, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Sexual Tension, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-05-31 09:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19423234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtailed/pseuds/curtailed
Summary: Sassy barista. Crabby customer. Impeding meteor.The typical.(3/27/2020: it's going to be finished up in one MASSIVE chunk.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a "break" from my other story, which I plan to drag into oblivion. This one should be shorter and sweeter.
> 
> More answers will be cleared up in future chapters.

When it's seven in the morning and you find yourself at Skaia Coffee flat-out drunk out of your mind, trying to put vomit in words and watching everything split into a kaleidoscope of insane, raving fuckery, because you can't cope with a fucking meteor hurtling towards you and everyone else on the planet -- but now you're rambling. You're mentally rambling and your thoughts are stringing out like half-assed pork lengths you saw at the butcher's last week, and yeah, you preferred meat, but what the fuck were the entrails doing _outside_ the goddamn pig. They were supposed to be inside. When you eat sandwiches you don't upend all the shit inside, and that's the same stupid deal with pigs. You eat a pig, you eat it like it died -- from the outside, and you don't cut shit from it just because.

That's what you're trying to inform the barista, anyway. Pigs and meteors and some sandwiches.

"I just need your order, sir," he said, clearly trying not to laugh.

Fuck him. Fuck him and you and yourself the most, because you're about to crack under all the pressure you feel like you're grinding through. 

"Meteor coffees? Sir, we don't have that."

"I can't do this." You almost pound your head against the glass sliding of the creamcakes and pastries. Almost. 

"You can have a seat if you need some time to make a decision." The barista had straight up thrown subtlety out of the window. He was laughing outright now, this fat shit-eating grin cracking across his face, and in your hazy stupor you managed to start laughing too. You hate him and his golden, gelled hair and the shades tucked in his collar, but you could laugh. It did feel nice.

You find a fucking seat.

Seven inches to eight, then nine, and as if a dam broke a flood of customers rush into the shitty shop to get even shittier coffee. At 9:37 your eye's pinned to the clock, you can count your heartbeats, and the golden-haired asshole barista is back in shift, and every so often throws a smirk in your direction. You actually do hate him. Not in a lust-disguised-as-loathing hate, not in a hate-makeout-mindblowing-sex form of hate, but an actually, reasonable platonic hate. Maybe you didn't want to see him dead, but there was one stupid reason you hated him so much and it wasn't even his fault at all.

At 9:38 the door tinkles open and you're still drunk.

Fuck.

"Karkat?"

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

"Karkat, you look like shit."

You don't even want to look up, but you do, because you love this dumbass and how his hair glows practically white in the morning sun and his aviators reflect back your drunken shitty state and gog, you love the word shitty, it's such an encompassing disyllable that describes every cut corner and angle in your life. You love it when he heads to your table, his face all flushed from the heat outside and the blush that burnt like blood among porcelain-white skin because he's an albino, and the way he lopes over to you, graceful as a gazelle that morphed into a human for the sake of this metaphor. You love all of it. You love it when he pauses before you and --

okay, you don't love that.

"What the fuck, Dave." You rub at the handprint he just smacked into your face. "Dave, you can't just bitch-slap people like that. You have to give them a good reason."

"Karkat." His voice is colder than the frappes the barista probably spilled over himself when he laughed at your sorry state. "You're fucking kidding me."

"Am I? _Am_ _I?_ " You try not to laugh. "What's wrong with me, Dave? Why are there two of you?"

He stares at you and you swear you can smell his frustration. "I'll get you a coffee, okay? Don't move."

He doesn't. Instead, he lingers at the counter and chats with the barista. Your giddiness quickly sours into this dark, choking emotion in your stomach, as you watch the barista lean forward and be subjected to one of Dave's little smiles -- the kind where he pushes up his mouth just by the corner, but the impact hits like a fucking truck -- and then you're wondering why Dave is giving _him_ one of those smiles, because you've only ever seen them. He had given one to you right before you --

The barista hands Dave a small slip of paper.

It's not a receipt.

Dave comes back as happy as a stoned Gamzee, a free coffee in hand. He forgot about yours. He sits in front of you and glances outside the window, unable to disguise the coloring in his cheeks.

You're drunk. You're more drunk than...well, ever. You heard about the meteor and you thought of your family, then your friends, and lastly of all, Dave. You thought of Dave. No one knew when the meteor was going to hit, and that was the worst part.

The waiting.

Holy shit, are you drunk.

"Dave, what's that?"

He peers over you and your heart clenches at how quickly his expression tightens, the coloring fading into an angry paling. "The barista gave me his number."

"Do you even know his name?"

"Yeah. His tag says Dirk on it."

Dirk and Dave. You taste the combination in your mouth, and you spit it out because you hate it. You might've spat in real life too because Dave flinches from you, rubbing at red saliva on his sleeve. "Dude, chill."

"I'm fucking fine." There's barely any customers in the shop anymore, and Dirk is nowhere in sight. You hate him with every fucking fiber of your being. 

"You promised me you wouldn't drink."

"It's a gogdamn meteor. What was I supposed to do, dance happy on the streets and kiss the ground before pulling off my pants in any semblance related to hippy-fested drug circles smothered in dead flowers?"

Dave slaps you again -- it's lighter, more of a reminder than a warning -- but it shocks you back into reality.

"I can't believe I said that."

"I can't either." Dave stands up to leave, looking down at the mess of arms and legs you were consisted of. "Karkat, this is fucking unreal. You told me you wouldn't drink, yet here you are, near passed out in my favorite coffee shop. What the actual hell are you thinking?"

"Why don't you go suck Dirk's dick instead of fucking in my business?"

You wait for his comeback.

The fucking waiting.

And when he doesn't respond, you slowly peer upward, the gravity of the situation crashing down on your idiotic, _idiotic_ head. It's like a bucket of icy water got doused into your thinkpan.

Dave's gone. 

And unlike every other time where he dragged you out of a tight spot, he's not coming back.


	2. Chapter 2

It all comes to a head when you find Jake speaking to a small, blonde-haired boy in the living room, the latter curled up on the couch and preferring to scrutinize the walls instead. You tread into the room slowly so that neither of them here you. You've mastered silent steps long ago; it was the first skill your father had taught you, to make not a single iota of sound despite being on carpet or linoleum.

You do, however, lean against the wall and listen to what Jake English is saying.

"And why do you think Dirk's your answer?" he's asking, his voice all gentle and soothing the way he isn't when he's talking to you.

The boy shifts among the pillows. "I...it's just that I remember my brother. A bit. He was a little older than me, but he was always swinging swords around and he liked robots. And then my mom leaves with him, and I lived with my dad -- "

"What's your name?" you snap, because you can't stand it anymore and you sadistically relish Jake's gasp of surprise.

"Uh -- um -- " The boy actually fucking _pales_ in fear, and you're pissed.

"I'm kidding. You're not, apparently, so you should get going." You bite back the guilt as the boy flinches from your tone. You didn't mean to be so harsh; it's not his fault and you silently wish him to find his family member.

The boy takes in your appearance. "You're -- I mean -- "

"I'm Dirk." You don't offer a hand. "But I'm not who you're looking for. You won't find him here."

Fuck, you can't stay mad at the kid.

He leaves quietly, Jake giving him a pat on the shoulder, and -- well -- you feel a rush of pity and you reach out and pat his hair. "I'm sorry about this."

The boy nods numbly before leaving.

After the door locks quietly, you close your eyes behind your shades and suck in a deep, fucking breath, and you count to ten, and your anger heats up faster than a microwave.

10.

"Dirk," Jake begins, the tension awkward in the air.

9.

"Dirk, I know you said we'd stop, but I just -- I just wanted to help you."

8.

"You're being awfully quiet there." He gives out a chuckle.

7 6 5.

How does anyone even put up with him -- oh wait, you do, because you're a sack of shit that will literally give anything as long you take a morsel in return.

4.

"I'll have to admit, chap, he wasn't too far off. Remember the time we had a ginger come in? _Ginger_ , I'd say!"

3.

"In hindsight, he was a little on the younger side. I suppose I should give you his name?"

2.

"You did say your brother would be around your age?"

1.

"I'm sure we'll find him one day. You and me." He's being so sweet. You thank fucking God he doesn't try to slip an arm around your waist, because you itch to snap it out of spite.

"Jake." You don't bother softening your tone. When you were mad, you used to pull the low, quiet anger laced with ice without ever changing your expression, but Jake can't read an emotion without it being manhandled into his nostrils. So you forego the act and hop straight to your blunt words.

"What the fuck was that," you said sharply.

He's still so cute, goddamn him, pushing up his glasses and blinking at you all owlishly. "Mr. Strider, are you implying anything?"

He's panicking, you realize. He knows you're pissed and he's putting on these different personas, stumbling from stick-up-the-ass gentleman to blue-streaking brawler, or whatever shit was drilled in his childhood, and on any other evening you would've lazed with him on the couch and listen to him weaving stories.

"You're still bringing kids in."

He turns serious. "I thought I'd give us a head start."

"You don't get it, do you? This search was a fucking joke. The day I find my brother -- " you fold your arms tightly -- "that's going to be _me._ I know, I fucking _know,_ that I'll know who he is when I see him. I don't want you interfering."

"Because your judgement is _so damn sound_ that I can't even help my boyfriend out?" he tosses back, and you feel _his_ wrath wash over you like a tidal wave.

"It's because you have no clue what you're doing."

"Maybe that's because you never tell me, you dolt!" 

"It's none of your business. I'm serious, Jake -- this has nothing to do with you."

"It has everything to do with you." he snaps, "so I'm in, whether you want it or not."

You're fucking done.

It's not just this conversation that ticks off every. Stupid. Bell. It's months of you two firing insults behind the smallest of things, or the way he calls you a clingy bitch and you lash back that he's a possessive asshole. You hang onto him, watching his every move, and when he does the same it's such a smothering feeling it's like being forced under pillows. Your makeouts bloom from an effort to one-up each other. Your sex is raw and painful, ending with both of you curled up on opposite sides of the bed, not daring to meet each other's glances. You know you're messed up and you shouldn't have mentioned this to him at all, that you've been searching for your brother for almost two decades because now it's almost a contest between you two, see who can find him first, and it has absolutely no meaning to him and everything to you -- but he says it differently, when he's trying to be sweet, and you don't let him because you can't trust him anymore. 

"I searched up some of the kids at the local orphanage," he's saying, still flushed in the face. "It's possible a few of them match, if you want to start an interview -- "

"Or you can get a hint and stay out of it."

"But everytime _I_ go out to -- cripes, man!" His mix of modern and centuries-old vernacular makes your fists clench. He's literally pulling at his hair. "Remember when I wanted to visit my friend? My fucking friend? And you tailed me?"

"She was your ex! How was I supposed to know you weren't going to -- "

"You can't goddamn trust me on _any_ thing, can you?!"

Your voices have risen into harsh, high tones. You're nearing something, some invisible edge, and shit will literally blow up if you peer over it. You go to the edge anyway because you always choose that route. You can easily tell him you won't do it again. You appreciate his help. Give him a well-timed hug; he always likes his hugs, soft and warm, and it calms him down into a sighing mess.

"You know the answer to your own question." You spread your palms outward in a mockery of a conciliatory gesture -- you could almost get off on how mad he's reaching, dangling your fake calm right across his face. "You said you'd drop this searching thing and you didn't. Your call."

To your mild surprise, Jake doesn't blow up immediately. He rocks back on his heels and scrutinizes the ceiling, trying to find some sort of foothold against your words.

"Okay," he says.

You feel your sneer drop a little.

"Okay," he repeats, tasting the word in his mouth, trying to determine its flavor. "Okay. Okay. Okay, _okay._ "

He glances up at you, his eyes slightly wet.

"Is that how you really feel, Dirk? You can't believe what I'm saying, right from my mouth?"

"At this moment, not really -- "

"Only at this moment?" His hands are shaking by his sides. "Not these past months or every time you come to visit me at work -- _visiting_? More like snooping around and making sure I haven't had any meaningful communication with anyone? And when you play your stupid little word games, making me say things I accidentally spew out and you latch onto them like they're proof of -- proof of what? What's your game here, Strider?" He angrily pushes his glasses up his nose, his pupils wide. "What do you want me to say? Do you hate me that much? Do you throw out every insult you've prepared for the day at me, and you get angry when I yell back -- "

You stare at him.

"You -- just you -- always playing these -- always _manipulative_ \-- look right now. Just look. Here we are, me trying to help you find your brother, and you're twisting it into some sick facsimile of an argument but we both know you win. You always win. You don't crumble into any emotion; you stand there and _watch_ me argue and cry and then you'll turn around -- " 

He heaves in a massive breath, his eyes never leaving yours. Something dark boils in your stomach, but you wait for him to finish.

He sucks in smaller breaths, one after another, until his breathing settles back into stability. 

"Are you done?" you say.

"Yeah."

Huh. You were expecting more. "So, as I was saying -- "

"I mean it, Dirk. I'm done. With -- " and you realize what he's saying as he gestures to you, then himself, then to the parlor and all the remnants of your life scattered across the wall. "I'm done," he says, almost to himself.

You know what he's saying, you _know,_ but you can't take it yet. You can't process it. Your ears are hearing it but your brain isn't receiving the memo that he just --

"We've dated for one year, two months, one week, four days." He ticks off the count on his fingers. "435 days. I'm surprised it lasted this long."

He's going through his pockets now, checking for his wallet, his keys -- and it finally _clicks._

"Jake, you're not actually -- "

"I'll be back to pick up my stuff. John will probably take me in for a few days, and Jane's been looking for someone to help pay her rent."

"Jake -- "

"This is a nice apartment." He glances over at it, then at you, his face eerily calm despite the tear tracks on his cheeks. "You can have it."

You...

You're still staring at him.

This shouldn't be happening.

It was just an argument. You had arguments before.

Just as you can rile him up so easily, a few, nicely-chosen words should convince him right back. 

...

...

...

The door's closing, gently, as you choose out your words.

He's just fooling around, right? He'll be back in an hour or so. He won't apologize, and neither will you, but you'll spend the rest of the evening together in a peculiar affability. 

...

...

...

It's just an argument. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> putting the sloooooooow in slow burn


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this thing existed, riight.
> 
> srry abt that

Monday comes and you find yourself slumped across the counter, listening to the whir of electric fans above your head.

The day's been lazy traffic so far. It's an average of a customer per hour, mumbling generic orders for frappes and coffees from the menu behind you, and the moment you hand off their cups you collapse back onto your stool, not bothering to wipe the sweat crawling down your neck.

The breakup takes some time to sink in.

True to his promise, he had came back a day later -- you saw Jane's rusty truck out in the front, the tires grinding restlessly against the concrete, and he doesn't say much. He exchanges a look with you. Another pal of his came to assist his moving -- his cousin, John -- and methodically they cleared away his living space. They didn't touch your workroom. It took a couple of hours, and then Jake paused at the door.

"Rent," he said flatly, thrusting a wad of bills at you.

You took it and waited.

He shrugged, his expression pained, and departed.

And here you are now, still picking through your memories like a metal detector on a beach. You're trying to scourge up the root of the problems. What if you had said something different? Would your relationship still be salvageable? Would it be worth salvaging? Why did you stick with him?

Why did he stay with you for so long?

He said you were clingy. He's probably forgotten about you. You know he and Jane won't do anything yet -- he still holds onto some perverted chivalry that dictates the respectable period of abstinence between relationships -- but they will, at some point. Or he'll find someone else. 

You want to slam your head against the register _so fucking bad._

You're so tired. You slept, and you woke, and in between were all these hazy dreams of cold surprises and hot fury. Dark, dangerous ideas crawled in your stomach, but you pushed them down. You can't vomit your feelings into anything coherent. 

It was a long time coming, anyhow.

You still try to slam your head against the register.

"Dude, are you paid to do that?"

Your effort misses and your forehead pretty much rebounds against the tips jar. It's a shallow cut above your brows, not even bleeding, but the pain amplifies in your brain. 

You didn't even hear the door open.

"No," you say, straightening. You don't bother with the pleasantries. "What do you wa -- "

The dude in front of you stares back at you -- or would be, you thought, if he wasn't wearing shades. An enormous pair of aviator glasses dip across his eyes, sleek enough that you can see your reflection cogently. His hair is whiter than the cream you squirt in a coffee cup -- the vanilla/milk variety, not your personal brew -- and his face is covered by a yellowing bruise.

You make an elliptical motion toward your own face. "You need the cops, man?"

"Coffee would be better."

He talks some more -- black, no sugar, no anything, please, just straight-up bitter condensed fuckery squeezed in reusable mugs -- and you notice his mouth is bleeding too. He's all thin and delicate like glass figurines. You shove him the cup, and he gives you some cash, telling you to keep the change.

"Cops," you repeat. Adamantly. 

"It's nothing, bro. It was my friend."

"Friendly fisticuffs?"

"Drunkenness." 

Fair enough. You lean against the counter, because it's either keep talking to him or drown yourself in your thoughts again. "What was the occasion?" A bit too personal, maybe, but you're bitching and hurting here and you don't have much to lose.

Surprisingly, he doesn't react to the question. "He made out with me and I shoved him away. So he fucking clocked me."

Ouch. Unrequited feelings. 

"You don't like this guy?"

"I fucking wish." He chugs down a swallow, but doesn't directly answer your question. "But I got pissed, I guess. So he swung his fist right into this beautiful, beautiful area and then passed out like a dick."

Double ouch, man. _Double._

He blinks at his mug, as if realizing it's legal coffee in the container and not hard whiskey. "Shit. I shouldn't be jamming it out with you in a coffee store."

"It's fine, drunk people mistake this place as a bar. Go on." You're such a good person, helping others unload their problems and not because you wanted reassurance that someone out there has it shittier than you.

He glances around the empty store and shrugs. "He'll be waking up soon. He's going to remember what happened, because of this loving evidence right on my nose, and then he'll shout at me with his adorable fucking annoying voice and we'll forget this ever happened."

Again, ouch.

"Sorry to hear that, man." You pat his shoulder, the curve cool under your palm. "Maybe he likes you back. You never know."

"He doesn't."

"Then move on. Keep the friendship. Bring him with you to get some coffee so I can get paid more." You couldn't even call Jake your friend anymore, not after what happened.

"...yeah." He finishes the coffee, brown trickling out of his mouth as he tosses it underhand into the waste bin. 

And with that, Dave Lalonde enters your life.

It's a slow process. It's akin to ripples, where you don't notice how much each wave pushes until it bunches around your toes, all angry salt and furious froth -- or maybe, just maybe, it's hard to look up at the door and not expect Jake to be grinning cheekily from the window, rimmed glasses propped up on his forehead. Fuck him. Fuck your heart.

Fuck him for peeling you open and making you realize how exactly -- how _fucking_ exactly -- full of shit you were.

It's the fifth day that you actually learn Dave's name -- simple monosyllable, like yours, scrawled hastily on his coffee cup. He probably notices the state of absolute debasement you're in.

"A little blunt here," he says, leaning against the counter, "but you don't look so good yourself. I thought it was some makeup issue, but you actually look like that every morning I've came here."

"You're not trying to be drunk, what's your point here?"

"Not a bar." He makes a grand gesture around the store. "But lay it on me, man. You gave me your bit, let me try to return to debtless status quo."

"Tic for tac much?"

"Yup." He gives you a little sideways grin, which eerily matches with his aviators. It's completely different from Jake's smile, toothy and open as it is. Smiles are a thing you don't see often these days. 

"Boyfriend issues." You steadily wipe down a mug. 

"Ouch."

"Sorry, I lied. Ex-boyfriend." Something heavy twists in your gut. "Not a conversation topic I'd want to get invested in."

"Totally fine, dude, we've all got our relationship issues." 

Your conversation peters out a little. You keep wiping down the bug, all too aware of his stare pinning to your every motion. He's affable enough and isn't too hard on the eyes, but you could've said the same for Jake. And there it goes, your mind looping back to the one constant in your life, you miserable waste of space. He's over it, clearly. 

"Hey, you okay?"

"Peachy," you snap, and then immediately feel ten kinds of asshole when he winces a bit at your tone. "Dude, no -- sorry, didn't mean to get pissed. Just -- "

"It's so chill with me that you don't want to share, it's completely okay." He's near babbling now. "I really didn't mean to bring up old stuff -- "

"Dave, I'm not made of glass." You feel a morbid about of pride as you stack the mug among the other washed specimens. "And you'e not being a dick about it, so I'll say that I fucked up and he did too, and now I need to find someone else to help pay the rent for me. Does that fly? Do I need to explain anything?"

God, someone needs to staple your impulsive mouth shut.

Surprisingly, Dave takes it with the grace of a therapist. "Was it all poor communication skills?"

"Nope," you say, startled to find you're responding. More startled that he hasn't hit you on the head with the register yet. "It's -- it's nothing, really."

Dave stares at you calmly for a moment.

"Let's make a deal," he says slowly, rubbing the edge of the counter with his palm. "You're not going to be stuck in this cycle of self-hatred, and I'm going to try taking my mind off of my crabby little pustule. We'll work through relationship issues together, okay? Capiche? Does _that_ need explaining?"

"I have literally known you for two days, bromeo."

"Good enough for me." Dave obnoxiously drags a stool over to your stand, the metal screeching horribly against the tiles, and props himself up on the seat. He places his chin on his hands and blinks up innocently at you, all smiles and fuck-yous behind his shades.

"Go on," he says, and you roll your eyes so hard they probably popped out of their skull, but a few minutes before your shift ends you drag in a corresponding stool.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man the update speeds are just cruisin like really
> 
> okay probably be atadmorefrequent from now on, really sorry but i was caught up in real life sht u know :/

Too many mornings end like this -- someone dragging you into the back of their car, muttering curses under their breath, someone else's scarf wrapped and thrust under your head in the backseat. Your vision clears to focus on the blurry silhouettes of Sollux's gog-awful car, Eridan currently in shotgun.

Your second thought is the suspicious stain on the seat closest to your head.

"What the fuck is this stain doing here?"

"Water," Eridan says hastily, at the same time Sollux says "ED"s genetic material" and the seadweller smacks the back of his head. Streets whiz by the vehicle, retreating down the streets that'll take you back to the apartment you share with Sollux.

Why were you in the car again?

Your mouth feels like sand got poured in it. You try to raise your head, try to sit straight, but the wave of nausea that hits you sinks right down to your toes. The couple seated ahead bickers in low voices, occasionally punctured by Eridan rubbing his knuckle over Sollux's, and the sight of it squirms darkly in your gut.

"KK, you okay?"

"I got drunk again," you rasp. "Fuck."

"That's the reaction, yeah."

"Shit." You hang onto the cushions for life. You need a gogdamn gallon of water and painkillers; your world seems to pressurize to the two points behind your eyelids. You resist the urge to claw them out. "What'd the hell did I even do?"

"I didn't even know you were at Skaia Coffee. Thought you hated the place."

You hate the people working there -- specifically, one. And after the morning today --

your memories trickle in like runny soup.

"Dave," you say, your voice hoarse.

Sollux tenses sympathetically in his seat, but it's Eridan that turns around to answer you. "Think he left you there by yourself. He did tell Sol where to pick you up, though."

The thought sends both pain and relief through your chest. Damn, you fucked up. You fucked up when there had been the Incident and now you're doubly screwed, because he sat you down in a chair and made you promise you wouldn't touch liquor again, not until you knew what you were doing.

_Fuckinggogdamnfksjnsjkdnfsd_

"I'm actually not sure if that's water," Sollux says, glancing at you trying to smear your face into the cushion via rearview mirror. You jump back like the shit's on fire, and he cackles nasally until Eridan smacks the back of his head again. A sharp left turn and you're entering colorless apartments, grass and trees the same dull grey as every other thing in sight.

He rolls up into the carport, and together him and Eridan manage to drag you out of the backseat. You smell and look like shit, like Dave had said.

Should you apologize? Then again, he isn't your personal therapist -- who the hell is he to tell you to drink? You're both adults. You live your own tangent of lives.

Minus the part that if he told you to jump, you'd ask how high.

"It's about the meteor, isn't it?" Eridan asks as you hobble into the elevator. The three of you crammed in countable foot-by-foot spaces is not a experience you want to relive, especially not the way he and Sollux look at each other like they want to take each other's clothes off with their teeth. You quickly check the elevator walls for any stains and find it spotlessly clean, much to your immense relief.

"Y-Yeah," you croak out, and another wave of guilt sinks you. "It was pretty big news, though. No one's going to see that colossal shitsphere in the sky and be like, 'Wow, I'm wiped free of my worries and fears, let me recuperate with pure black caffeine!' I'm not living in a gogdamn monastery."

"I don't think he expected you to be that blitzed," Sollux says as you three stumble out into the hallway.

"Who the fuck wasn't? I'm not celebrating my demise with celibate tea."

"It's not complete Reckoning, KK," your roommate says, pushing open the door. Immediately they unceremoniously dump you into the couch -- which, you realize with dull horror, has more than a few stains. "There's a chance a portal'll get it first."

"Not when it's the size of an inflamed anus, no. And please tell me this is all water."

"It might not be," Eridan confesses and you attempt to bean a pillow at him. Surprise surprise, he dodges because the thing sails by him by a full meter. 

"Why do you care so much what Dave thinks, anyway?" Sollux asks as he pushes a glass of water into your hands. You drink it to its dregs and try to lick off every drop plastered on its sides.

You stare at Sollux until he sighs.

"Alright, not a funny question. Why not just _tell_ him?"

"Because he did the equivalent of disowning me? He's never left me behind before."

"Maybe you should ask," Eridan pipes up as he slumps into the armchair. Sollux, without preamble, sinks right into his lap.

You look over at their domestic image -- the way their fingers play into their hair, the way their touches linger and memorize each other's skin -- and the pressure in your gut only intensifies. You want domestic. You want someone to hold you and for you to hold them, to rely that they'll be your lifeline, and you can be theirs. You want to share an apartment and ride in shitty cars and listen to white noise through the speakers.

Then you think of the barista -- who's all but a stranger to you, whose existence means as much to you as your neighbor's cat -- and your stomach tightens again.

You need to tell him, you think, before you erupt.

You tug out your palmhusk from your jeans pocket -- you're mildly surprised it didn't fall out from your drunken ramblings last night -- and steel yourself by a marginal amount.

carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling turntechGodhead [TG]

CG: HEY.

CG: CAN WE TALK LATER?

CG: I'M REALLY SORRY THIS SHIT HAPPENED AGAIN, OKAY?

turntechGodhead [TG] has blocked carcinoGeneticist [CG]

CG: ...

CG: CRAP.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i should probably wite an outline for this
> 
> SO FHSJKFDBF SORRY for the wait like wth is my problem

Up, down, the ball lands back in your hand.

The ceiling fan spins lazily above you.

All of your windows are open; the air's relatively fresh outside, circulating haphazardly around the room, ruffling the curtains and your sketches on the desk. The apartment's modest enough, definitely suitable for a single-person residence.

Up, down.

The ball had originally been plastered bright rubbery red; years of your fingerprints smeared over its hemispheres, occasionally rebounding off the sink's edge, has turned it a soupy brown. Throwing and catching it comes as easy as breathing.

Up, down.

Alternative plan: you chuck the ball hard at the wall, watching it bounce crazily on the floorboards before rolling to a stop under your turntables.

Normally you'd be slipping on the headphones by now -- losing yourself to a medley of notes and beats that only made sense in your head -- but then you think of Karkat, drowning out all his woes in a white-hot rush, and you squash down the urge to throw the headphones too. Thinking about him often stirs up this reaction.

You hate yourself for it.

You grab your thoughts by the bridle and _yank_ it back to more passable territory -- too long you've thought of your nubby-horned 'friend,' if you could even call him that now. You haven't spoke cordially in months. It's been you talking and him listening with one ear, the other gazing outside in a stupor of muddled rage and regret that reminds you of someone drowning.

A few feet away from you, your phone pings.

The ringtune's one that you haven't heard from in a while -- it was something stupid you both had picked out during Graduation road trip; just you two cruising mindlessly down empty roads, watching trees and towns and hives flit by, the stereo volume cranked up to full. The car had shuddered from euphony of sounds. And above all, it was Karkat when he was _alive_ \-- vital -- eyes sparkling, horns pulsing, face still hopeful. The wind had whipped in his hair and he had stuck his head out the window and screamed obscenities, you laughing too hard and feeling like your face would crack from smiling --

carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling turntechGodhead [TG]

CG: HEY.

CG: CAN WE TALK LATER?

CG: I'M REALLY SORRY THIS SHIT HAPPENED AGAIN, OKAY?

Effortlessly you thumb off the **BLOCK** function; dammit, you're cruising down memory lane, back to its appealing world of colors, and you don't have the energy for pity stops. He's probably flat-out unconscious right now. Maybe he's in Sollux's apartment if the latter got your terse message, maybe he's somewhere else, maybe he's back at home, wondering why he woke up alone.

What the hell ever.

And you _know_ you'll beat yourself up later for this, for brushing him off like a petty child, but _fuck_ \-- he promised you. He swore on Terezi's name that he wouldn't fall back into it. And you were the only one idiotic enough to believe him for it.

Before you can rev up the thought of chucking your phone across the room, however, it pings again --

timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

TT: Hey, Dave.

TT: Just wanted to know if we're still fine for Saturday at one.

TG: nothing changed since like six hours ago man

And _once again_ you're speaking (typing) without a brain-to-mouth filter. You are the winner of conversations. That's you.

TT: Look, you weren't looking like Pollyanna when you left the cafe today, so I just thought you might've wanted some blowoff steam.

TT: Unfortunately, painfully, completely relatable from my POV.

TG: nah dude hes just

TG: a friend

TG: fights between friends if you get my meaning

TT: I mildly do.

TT: Uh, do you.

TT: I don't know.

TT: You want to talk about it?

TG: do i want to talk abo

You quickly backspace your words and wait for your rationality to catch up with your brain. You take in a slow breath, letting your nerves calm to something passable, before resuming to type:

TG: nah its alright

TG: thanks for offering though

TT: No problem, I guess. See you then.

TT: <3

timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

For some reason, the little orange heart makes your stomach twist a little. You really can't pinpoint why: you and Dirk have talked a lot before. You've shared a lot of things with each other. You enjoy his company in the quiet humming of the cafe's atmosphere, surrounded by scents and smells of coffee brewing and pastries warming and the chime of the door whenever it swung open. By all accounts, this next step here should be like toeing into a gigantic, soft bubble bath.

Instead, you feel like you're treading ice water.

turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering twinArmageddons [TA]

TG: ill come over and pick him up when hes sober

TA: are you 2eriiou2ly playiing thii2 game, lalonde.

TG: tell him terezis reception is this saturday and hell have to go there himself

TG: ive got shit to do

turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering twinArmageddons [TA]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dave and dirk are kind of awkward bc...u know.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, okay, updates ahoy haha
> 
> okay so its pretty obvious the story took a deeeetour here hehe
> 
> for those who still follow this story, sorry! although maybe this time around I can pick it up again. I'm actually pretty fond of this story.

Terezi's reception, by all accounts, is an annual reminder of how much you screwed up.

Life bubbles to normal. Normalcy -- meaning you're alive, meaning your friends are alive, meaning the humans still are -- and where the Game gets banished to a low burner, its only cost appearing in the worst of nightmares. You've spawned in this world with barest memories, reassured startings of friendships, and the _feeling_ that you've done something to earn this false harmony.

Save for Terezi, that is.

Year One had everyone streaming to the reception, where you all stood around her grave and toed at her dirt until Vriska -- fucking _Vriska --_ completely lost it, collapsing onto her knees and sobbing until it sounded like she would tear her own lungs out. She had cried and sobbed and wept until cerulean watered the ground, hair twisted in crazy tangles, and it took the combined trollpower of Eridan and Kanaya to drag her away, her former kismesis and moirail both venturing into pale as they made her wails calm to whimpers.

The rest of you just stood there.

You were the perfect leader. It is you.

Recovery's a slow, painful burn; the fifteen of you are unbalanced, the dynamic flawed, without the ruthless arm of faux-justice grinning and simpering madly from your periphery. Even Rose and Jade -- two humans who weren't exactly close with Terezi -- couldn't help but be dragged into a swamp of despair, like all of you are caught in invisible wires and strangled until you'd die senseless. It's natural to break into diaspora; Equius and Nepeta head to the trollified Canada, Gamzee and Tavros are lost among the human-troll migration to Annapolis. Jade, Aradia, and Feferi disappear into the Island Ring around the Pacific-Alternian Sea. You, Sollux, Eridan, John, Vriska, Rose, Kanaya, and 

_Dave_

head to a new Houston.

Year Two, not everyone makes to Terezi's reception. She's buried near the sea, where the surf flits to high salt cliffs and the brine stings sharp in the air, and Equius and Nepeta send their condolences from afar via worn envelope. You're all old and cracked and ruined inside, even though your exterior is just of those entering what Dave dubs "high school" -- not that systemized education was a thing for all castes back at home -- and you're not supposed to be living this life, dealing with mundane social issues, not while your dearest friend laid six feet under.

Year Three has all of you Houstonians -- on the human Graduation Day -- squeezed in a car, making your way to Terezi's burial place, and it's where you open the backseat to find Eridan and Sollux making out and then open the camp tent flap to find Rose and Kanaya in various states of undress and then you hoped to find some goddamn peace in the rest stop bathroom and find John and Vriska in a stall together. It's a horrible week-long journey, incidentally, but it culminates with you and Dave sitting quietly at the seaside cafe and watching the waves pound the shore.

"Be my boyfriend -- quadrantmate -- whatever," he veers off quickly when he sees your expression. "Like -- if you want to man, but I'm just -- " he takes your hand slowly, giving you plenty of time to draw away -- "just -- I don't want to leave any of you alone. All of us...we've been through a lot together, you know."

You think of Terezi, long gone and cold and her arms around you, face pressed to yours, and at that moment you wished you died alongside her.

"I don't think that's what you want, Strider," you tell him, and withdraw your fingers. The warmth leaves tingles up and down your palm, but you can hardly relish it from Dave's -- well -- _lack_ of expression. Your own feelings burn ugly and agonizing inside your chest.

Year four, and Jade, Aradia, and Feferi have the courtesy of sending a postcard. John holds Vriska awkwardly and you glance at Dave's hand sometimes, watching his fingers curl against his thigh, and you wonder. He and Terezi had split up, true enough, but they were still friends first and foremost.

She had been there when he had knelt over the corpse of his brother.

 _You know what the universe could fucking give us?_ he says to you later. _Everyone we lost._ _A reset button._

_Dave --_

"Rose doesn't have her mom," Dave speaks slowly, and you'd think he's emotionless if you hadn't been familiarized with him over the years of the Game. "John doesn't have his dad. Jade's grandpa never came back. My _bro_ never came back." His voice hitches a little. "And -- and I don't want to remember all of -- all of what we've been through. So many times you died and John died and Rose and Jade and.." he makes a gesture to the empty air, and you know he's referring to Terezi.

"You want to reset your memories."

"In a heartbeat."

"So -- " and it feels like your heart's being shattered -- "you want to forget about us, too."

Year five, and Rose and Kanaya don't make it here. Actually, scratch that -- none of your friends make it, except for you, Dave, John, and Vriska. Vriska, you think, will come here long after the oceans have risen and the oldest buildings in the universe have crumbled into debris.

And you.

You'll come here until the day you turn into dust, meaningless as atoms and particles disassociated from the cosmos.

It's Year Six when the memories began receding. In all honesty, you're actually surprised it took so long for this new universe to finally realize you were all anomalies -- _nonexistent, depraved anomalies_ \-- and it's Jade that succumbs first, awakening one morning to a ram-horned and seadwelling girl peering over her in bafflement. Aradia later messages you, in distress, that Jade had almost blown both their heads off.

You message to Nepeta, and Equius tells you -- as a stranger -- to step the fuck off.

Everyone's swept under the tide. Some struggle to fight it -- like Sollux, who stares at his hands and curses when he can't remember why -- and some let themselves go, Rose and Kanaya losing themselves to the current while still holding onto each other. Your fellowship is disintegrated into its components. You're renewed again, forged in a second chance, but it feels like an end.

Dave recognizes you.

The months when you meet up again, he knows who you are, the context of both of your situations -- but he's forgotten his own name. He lives with someone named Rose for his whole life apparently, he says with a complete lack of irony, and you want to scream right in his face. He's not supposed to leave you and let you lose him like the way you love him: with frantic, desperate longing, a drowning sailor in a tempest.

Year Ten -- a whole goddamn decade after you were spat heaving and crying onto a world that hated your every cell -- you and Vriska come alone today. By now Terezi's gravestone is worn, chipped from wind and weather and water, eroded into decay. You pretend the rest of your friends have your mind set on this day. You pretend they're all here with you in spirit, heartbeats in sync as you mourn over a fallen friend.

"Vriska?"

"I'm staying here," she whispers softly. "just a little longer."

You sit at the edge of the cemetery, and listen to the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Game they're referring to doesn't include the alpha kids, btw.


End file.
